


Rose

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Tiny fic/headcanon: one walks in on the other masturbating.





	Rose

There’s a storm outside. The autopsy was gruelling. She swears she’s lost five pounds in sweat this past hour alone. They have connecting rooms again. Something of a habit that Mulder has developed but one for which she can’t find a scientific explanation to debunk. There is no medical diagnosis for a man who likes to be so close to his pretty-much-platonic-partner-and- yet-won’t-touch-her-that-way. Co-dependent distance disorder? She snuffs out a giggle into her hand and hears the clunk of plumbing shutting off next door. She’s already shucking off her shirt and skirt before the final groan of the pipes is silenced.

She can hear vague rumbles of thunder outside as she lathers the motel shampoo through her hair releasing the overpowering scent of chemically-induced jasmine. The lavender body wash is not much gentler. She’ll smell like a lush garden, she thinks to herself, then starts singing ‘I beg your pardon…’ in a faux-country accent.

It’s a while before she feels her shoulders relax.

Her hands map her body, washing the back of her neck, her arms, her breasts and stomach, down her thighs to her knees and shins and feet. There’s a clack-clack-boom of thunder that rattles the shower screen and she sees the bathroom door has cracked open. She turns away and laughs at her unnecessary modesty. Mulder is probably lying diagonally across his bed with a wet towel draped across his hips, cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth. Shit. Shit. No. Don’t go there.

She stretches her face to the shower spray, starts singing again and her hand slides across her right breast, round her nipple. ‘Well, if sweet talkin’ you, could make it come true’. Each rib under her touch is rounded and smooth. The dip and flare of her hip is emphasised by the water running off her as she hums, her fingers splay across her lower abdomen, brushing the wet hair there. She bites her lip and lowers her fingers, pressing them to the soft plump flesh.

In her mind she can see Mulder’s towel slip lower, brushy hair curling around his cock, soft for now. As her finger separates her labia and pressures her clit, she can see him thickening, swelling under his own grasp. As she slides her finger back and forth, her imaginary Mulder strokes his cock to the same rhythm.

The tile is cool and slippery under her touch, she bends her fingers to a fist as she braces against the building heat between her legs. ‘I never promised you a rose garden’ is on repeat in her head, her legs tremble and she sees Mulder’s face crunch up in the agony of ecstasy as she explodes, crying out and letting the water splash into her mouth.

It’s a while before she’s steady enough to turn off the shower.

The next morning, Mulder is standing jacketless outside the motel door, brown paper bag batting his thigh. Bagels, she hopes. It will never make up for his running out on her impromptu cheese and wine party during that mothman case but it tells her he’s trying.

She steps out just as he turns. They bump middles and he grins. “I beg your pardon, Scully.” In his other hand, he holds a celophane-clad red rose and he thrusts it into her palm.

It’s a while before she can move towards the car.


End file.
